


They Say We're Crazy

by setmeatopthepyre



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-29 02:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12620812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setmeatopthepyre/pseuds/setmeatopthepyre
Summary: The story of how a teen Cross ends up as part of the Rowdy 3, starting with a bar fight that changes his life.





	1. Hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Takada_Saiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takada_Saiko/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Howl Until it Hurts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470888) by [Takada_Saiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takada_Saiko/pseuds/Takada_Saiko). 



> This ties into takadasaiko's [Howl Until it Hurts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12470888/chapters/28383480) and has overlapping chapters in some places, but tells Cross' story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cross gets into a bar fight that changes his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [Chapter 11: "Three"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12470888/chapters/28753880), of Howl Until it Hurts.

He was tired and hungry, though honestly Cross couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been to some degree. Not physically hungry, though. It was hard to explain, but the hunger was deeper than that. He felt it way down, pulling at his bones and gnawing at the corners of his mind, slowing him down, making him irritable. 

He was probably crazy. He knew that. Scrap that, he was _definitely_ crazy. He’d long since come to terms with it, with the fact that that was what he was, just another crazy homeless kid. At least he didn’t have to beg for food. His stomach never asked him for anything. And he knew how to combat that other, deep hunger. 

Even if he would never be able to explain it. Even if it meant he was definitely, certifiably crazy. 

He kept his head down as he stepped into the bar, though he knew no one would ask him for an ID. They never did. As long as he kept to himself it didn’t seem like they cared at all what he did or who he was, which made it the perfect place to shake some of that hunger.

The air was different inside. Buzzing. Full of music and noise and smells and energy, all of those things somehow mingling and becoming one and the same in Cross’s mind. He snatched up an abandoned, half-empty cup of beer to keep up the image of a paying customer and took it with him to a relatively quiet corner. There, in the dark, he breathed in deep and let all those different sensations flood his senses. He almost felt like he could become one with it all, with that buzzing, that he could just disappear if he closed his eyes and let go.

His skin prickled and a second later someone collided with him. Beer spilled over his front and Cross snarled. Before he could stop himself he pushed back, hard, harder than he’d meant to.

Hadn’t he, though? Meant to?

Just basking in that energy was not enough and the delicious smell of violence that filled his head promised him _more more more_. He grinned widely, madly, at the man who had just nearly knocked over four of his friends. A few of them shouted at him but he barely registered what they said. His head was full of their anger, full of their rage, full of the confusion of the people around them who were slowly catching on to what was happening.

Somewhere, something spiked and Cross stepped aside on instinct, dodging the blow directed at his head. He brought his knee up sharply and caught his would-be attacker in the stomach. The intoxicating flood of rage and pain that spilled out of him was a sweet reward, but not one he could enjoy for long. His own movements had thrown him off balance and he fell right into one of the men that had stepped in to surround him. He snarled, angry and more than a little panicked now that he could see that he was outnumbered and closed in with nowhere to run. There was no time for him to regain his footing as he was shoved from the back and once again into the middle of the circle. They were toying with him now, he knew, could feel the laughter bubble up in them before it even left them, could _taste_ how much twisted joy pushing him around brought them. 

The man he had shoved grabbed him by the front of his jacket and Cross knew that maybe he had screwed up. There was still a chance to make it out, though it meant he could never come back here. Then again, hadn’t he ruined that already? He wasn’t exactly keeping to himself. He lifted up a hand towards the man clutching his jacket. He frowned and tried to focus. If he could just -

Suddenly the man holding on to him was turning away, was being punched in the face, was radiating surprise and outrage and letting him go. Cross stumbled back, regained his footing, and took a second to get his bearings. There was something new in the air, something that added giddy anticipation to the adrenaline already rushing through him. Someone else had stepped in, an older teen with a shock of platinum blond hair and glasses, with another, slightly shorter teen right behind him. The blond was taunting the circle of attackers, was grinning at them and there was something oddly familiar about him, about both of them. 

There was no time to dwell on it. The people surrounding him had gotten over their initial surprise and descended on them. Cross dodged one of them, was knocked to the floor by another. Despite all the excitement and the buzz in the air he was still hungry, was still a little too slow. He rolled away from someone’s kick and sprang back up in time to punch his assailant in the face. There was a satisfying crunch that made the pain in his knuckles well worth it and Cross couldn’t help but grin. Then there was a spike of _something_ and a beat later a loud crash as his blond ally landed hard on a table. Cross started to move towards him only to find the other teen already back on his feet, this time brandishing one of the broken table’s legs as a weapon. 

He turned back, still grinning, only to be met with a fist that just missed his eye but rattled his jaw. Cross staggered, swearing loudly, then kicked out with a long leg to send his attacker reeling back. He remembered to brace himself this time so as not to stumble again and then threw a bar stool after the man for good measure. The stool missed its target and broke apart against the wall. 

More people had joined the fray and the air was thick with confusion and anger and violence. It was almost intoxicating in those cramped quarters and Cross struggled to pull his focus away from the hunger and back to the fight. Just in time, because one of his attackers was swinging a chunk of wood at him. He had no time to move away and threw up an arm instead, blocking the blow. He took hold of what he now recognized as part of the shattered bar stool and tugged hard, pulling his attacker off balance so that a well-placed kick could finish the job. As he stumbled to the ground, his grip on the weapon failed and Cross wrenched it from his grasp.

He felt the laughter before he heard it, before he realized he was laughing too. The two teens that had jumped in to help him had just sent a man slamming face-first in to the floor but then something was wrong and it pulled at him and the blond stumbled and Cross moved. A man was rushing the other teen, trying to take advantage of his fall, and Cross would be damned if he let that happen. He surged forward and swung out hard with the bar stool leg. It stopped the man dead in his tracks, catching him across the middle and sending a wave of shock and pain out into the room that made Cross grin wide.  He twirled his new weapon in his hands, feeling more than a little pleased with himself, and looked over to meet the other teenager’s eyes.

His grin fell.

A bright surge of _something_ flashed across his mind and for a moment he thought someone had hit him across the head, but there was no pain and it lasted only a second. It felt like things had shifted in his mind, as though something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something he had no words for, had snapped into place.

The other teen shouted and Cross felt a spike. Though he couldn’t make out the words, the spike told him _move_ and _danger_ and he turned, confused. There wasn’t any time to react or even think before he was knocked down, his attacker landing on top of him. His head bounced painfully off the floor and the breath was knocked out of him. After a dazed second he moved to push the other man off, trying to ignore the pain in his rapidly bruising arm and knuckles. It was no use. Despite the adrenaline, despite the energy buzzing around him, he was still hungry, still _tired_ deep down in his bones. His hands paused on the man’s chest and he focused and _pulled_ instead. 

A familiar rushing sensation filled him as energy moved between the man’s body and Cross’ hands. He could taste it - confusion, anger, fear, all of it swelling as the man slumped. Cross had to struggle to breathe, but finally, _finally_ feeling the hunger ebb away more than made up for it. Then the man was being lifted off of him and Cross quickly cut off the flow.  
“C'mon.” It was the blond. “Cops are here.”  
Judging by the look he gave him, his feeding hadn’t gone unnoticed. Cross cursed and accepted the other teen’s hand up. “You saw-” he began, somehow wanting to clarify what he couldn’t possibly explain.  
“Outside,” the other growled. He whistled, and from somewhere in the mass of people the other teen appeared. The two of them ushered Cross outside into the parking lot, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the police, who were entering the bar from the other side. They took no chances, moving quickly into a back alley before finally stopping to take a breath. All three of them burst out laughing and Cross could _feel_ it. Not just his own laughter but theirs too, bubbling up somehow, impossibly, in the corners of his mind. 

The blond lit a cigarette and Cross looked from him to his other new partner in crime. He could barely contain his excitement. The giddy feeling, combined with the adrenaline and newly acquired energy, made him feel more awake, more _alive_ than he had in a long time.  
“Did you see ‘em?” he asked, grinning, pointing back in the direction of the bar. “Did you see their faces? Yo, did you headbutt that guy, man? Did you really?”  
The shorter teen grinned and shrugged. “I didn’t like 'im.”  
Dark eyes met each other. Something flashed again, shifted again, puzzle pieces falling together. Confusion sparked across the edges of his mind.  
“Woh. What the hell?” He was going crazy. Crazier. The two other teens exchanged a look and he felt his stomach drop. This was the moment they realized he was insane, the moment they’d want nothing more to do with him.

Instead, the blond brought a hand to rest on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Any doubts Cross had melted away and quickly made way for excitement again. Somehow he knew, could feel that he could trust these two strangers. They didn’t feel like strangers at all, even if he didn’t understand why or how.  
“It’s a little.. disorienting at first,” the older teen told him.  
“Didn’t know it could happen with more 'n just two. What’s your name?”  
“Cross. I’m Cross.” His eyes darted between the two. “What is this? What the hell is this?”  
“It’s okay. Easy, Cross. Easy. We gotcha.” The blond tilted his head a little, seemed to study him with his piercing blue gaze. Cross stared back, heart and thoughts racing.  Why did it feel like he knew these two, like they were _important_ but he’d somehow forgotten? He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Who are you guys?”  
“I’m Martin,” the taller of the two said. “He’s Gripps.” 

It all fell into place. 

“You’re like me.” He breathed. “You’re like me.”  
There was a hint of a smile there. “Yeah. We are.”  
“How’d you do that?” Gripps asked. “Only take a little. I mean, you weren’t snackin’ in there.”  
Cross blinked, confused. “Huh?”  
“When you just breathe it in. You took it from him, but not a lot,” Martin tried to clarify.  
“Breathe it in? I don’t know how to do that. How do ya do that?”  
“Practice. We’ll teach you.”  
Cross knew it was a promise and suddenly he could see a future for himself, a future beyond the day to day survival. A future where he wasn’t alone anymore. He smiled carefully at first, then wider once he saw the expressions on his friends’ faces.  His brothers’ faces. Even though they’d just met, they were family. 

Martin breathed in deep, then froze. “We gotta go.”  
“Where?” Cross asked, something sending a shock through the warm sense of home that had been filling him up.  
“He’s here.”  
Gripps tilted his head, sensing it too. “Where?”  
_“Who?”_ Cross demanded, panic sparking.  
“Don’t know,” Martin admitted softly. “Never seen him. Just smelt him. He’s… bad news. Real bad news. Blackwing. We gotta go.”  
_What’s Blackwing?_ Cross wanted to ask, but Martin was already moving. Someone blocked their way and Cross’ skin prickled. He could feel Martin and Gripps’ reactions to the man there and though he didn’t understand it, every fiber of his being told him this was bad, this was _wrong_ _wrong wrong_.  
The man stepped forward and into the light of the alleyway. “Hello, Martin. Gripps. My name is Mr Priest. I’ve come to take you home.”


	2. Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cross and his new brothers face Priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Cross' point of view of Howl Until it Hurts [Chapter 12: "Priest"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12470888/chapters/28809864).

There was something very, very wrong about the man blocking their path, the man who had just introduced himself as _Mr. Priest_. He wasn't familiar at all, not in the way that Martin and Gripps were, but he was _wrong_. Cross wasn't sure how he knew. Maybe it was because _they_ knew. He could feel their anger and fear like static in the air and looming at the edges of his mind. Whoever this man was, he was a threat to them. And Cross would not let him hurt his newfound brothers.

"Go," Martin growled, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

"But-" Cross protested, frowning.  There was no way he was leaving them. Not after tonight, not after _everything_.  
" _Get_ ," Martin snarled and Cross jumped at the spark of urgency that came with it. He turned and stepped back towards the shadows but found the way blocked by people in black military outfits, their faces hidden.  
"Well that is _in-te-res-ting_ ," the man drawled, and Cross stepped back closer to his brothers, not taking his eyes off of the military men. Having his back to this Mr. Priest felt like a bad idea but the soldiers were closer and with more. A moment later he felt both Martin and Gripps step in, covering his back, and the sense of wrongness subsided just a little.

The man chuckled. "Riggins said you were somethin' else. He didn't think I could find you, much less bring you in with my methods." Cross felt his brothers shift. "Looks like I get a three for two special."  
The man seemed to be _enjoying_ himself. Cross could feel it, could smell it and shook his head a little, trying to get the odd, sickeningly sweet _wrongness_ out of his nose. _He's crazy_ , he thought, determination building. _He's crazy and I won't let him take them. They're my family now, my brothers and no one is taking anyone anywhere, not anymore_.

He could feel Martin and Gripps close behind him, their presence comforting despite the circumstances. They were buzzing with energy, with anticipation. The lights over the alley flickered and popped. Martin growled.

It all exploded at once.

The military men descended on them and all three rushed to meet them. He could feel his brothers' energy buzzing, singing at the edges of his mind and he laughed out loud. This was how it was supposed to be. Them against the world.

Cross lunged past the soldier closest to him, gripping his bar stool leg in both hands before bringing it cracking down on the man's back. Someone came at him from the other side and he turned, using his momentum to swing the piece of wood out hard in their direction. It landed on the soldier's helmet with a loud snap and broke in two. _Shit_. He sent the man careening into one of his colleagues with a kick to the back, then scanned the ground for some other kind of weapon. Fists weren't exactly effective against the soldiers' body armor and his knuckles still ached from the bar fight moments before. _There_. Something metal glinted off to the side of the alleyway and Cross rushed over, narrowly avoiding a baton to the head.

It was a tire iron. A triumphant grin spread across Cross' face as he swung it a few times, getting a feel for its balance. It would do well.  
With renewed enthusiasm he launched himself back into the fight, finding Gripps close by, though a soldier stood between them. Cross met his brother's eyes and was answered with a wide grin and a nod. He pushed. The soldier stumbled forward and Gripps gave him another hard shove before he could regain his footing. The man lurched backwards and Cross danced to the side to avoid his wildly flailing arms, then hooked the tire iron around his neck and pulled to send him forward again.

A few moments later another stumbling soldier was tossed into the fray and Martin joined them in their game of passing the utterly confused and disoriented men around. Cross laughed out loud as a third soldier was added, the smell of fear and confusion mingling with the bubble of excitement and amusement coming from his brothers. They jeered and howled as one of the soldiers tripped over his own feet and fell and Cross almost, _almost_ forgot about the man who had threatened his brothers. The man who still had to pay for making them feel afraid.

"Let's rush him," he offered, grinning wolfishly and rolling forward on the balls of his feet, ready to jump into action.  
"No."  
Cross frowned and opened his mouth to argue, but caught a hint of warning and decided against it. A jolt of panic caused him to look around, look to Martin. Then he saw the man, Priest, moving towards him, wearing some odd device, and he snarled. Cross took a step in Priest's direction, grasping the tire iron a little tighter and squaring his shoulders. _No one's taking anyone anywhere_ , he reminded himself, ignoring the sparks of fear that burst along the edges of his mind. _They're my family, my brothers. Mine._

The man raised a hose at him and he felt fear crashing in from two sides. Gripps was in trouble and Martin was moving. Cross pulled his focus back in. He couldn't let the man with his odd device out of his sight. If he could distract him long enough, maybe the others could get away -  
Gas poured out of the hose and filled his nose and lungs, stinging as though he were breathing glass shards. His legs buckled. Then the gas was gone again and he coughed and stumbled back, shaking his head as though to clear it from the fog that had crept in.

Martin had Priest now, pulled him away, turned to Cross. "Go."  
_No_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn't get the word out. He shook his head, eyes wide. Finally found his voice. "I'm not leaving you guys!"  
"We'll find you," Martin swore, and Cross knew it was true. But he wouldn't leave. He couldn't. He couldn't leave the only family he had, the people he was supposed to be with.  
Martin turned back to Priest, pointing, threatening him. "You wanna go at my boys, you go through me first."  
"Gladly," Priest replied and then the gas was back, engulfing Martin.  
Cross felt pain fizz at the edges of his mind, from Martin or Gripps he didn't know.

Then it hit, cymbals clashing in his mind, light streaking across his vision. Martin. _Martin_.

_"Martin!"_

He was running. He wasn't sure when his legs had started to move, but he was running. Away from the soldiers. Away from the man called Priest. Away from the blood.

Away from his brothers.

His eyes stung and his heart ached and the edges of his mind were static, terrifying static, and he _ran_.


	3. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cross wakes up after Martin and Gripps are taken. There's no buzzing at the edges of his mind. No static. Just silence.

The first thing Cross noticed when he woke up was the silence. Not the pain in his head, not the bruises on his arms and knuckles, not the bright, blinding sunlight reflecting off the cars in the scrapyard. Just that terrifying, deafening silence. 

_They shot Martin._  
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.    
_They took Gripps._  
He'd run. He'd left them. Left them behind with that man, with all those soldiers.  
_They're gone._  
He was alone. Again.   
No, not alone. Not really. Never again alone. He had a family now.   
And for a moment, he let that ember of hope flare up inside of him. 

Then he remembered the silence. 

Cross sat up slowly, carefully, in the car seat. His head throbbed but the pain was not so bad. He felt okay physically, definitely better than he'd expected to. Mentally, however..  He tried to clear his head, tried to find some hint of Gripps or Martin there. He hadn't quite gotten used to their presence in the short time that he'd known them, but them not being there at all felt wrong. 

There was nothing. None of the static that he'd felt the night before, the white noise that he'd fallen asleep to. Nothing but silence.

He felt sick. What if the silence meant.. it couldn't, could it? They couldn't both be..   
His stomach lurched and he stumbled out of the empty shell of the car that he'd slept in. His knees hit the dusty ground and he willed himself to calm down, willed himself to focus. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths._ They were alive, had to be. He'd find them and they would be fine. Well, maybe not completely _fine_. Martin had been shot after all.  
 _He's been shot. Martin's been shot and there was so much blood and he fell and what if the silence means he's dead what if they're both-_  
No. _No_. Deep breaths. 

"Hey!"  
Cross jumped to his feet and reached for the tire iron that had fallen out of his grasp at some point while he slept.   
"Hey kid, you can't just - _Hey!_ Put that down." The older heavyset woman approaching him didn't seem too threatening, but he wasn't taking any chances. He clutched the tire iron tightly. The woman stopped a safe distance away and crossed her arms.   
"You can't be here, kid. I'm going to have to call the police if you don't leave."  
Cross hesitated. The men who had taken Martin and Gripps had seemed military. What if the police led them to him? He couldn't face all of them, not alone. Although.. what if they took him to where they were keeping his brothers? Then at least they would be together and they could make the bastards pay and escape. 

_Unless they're dead._

The woman must have caught his panicked expression, because her voice softened a little. "Do you have anywhere to go, boy?"  
When Cross didn't answer she eyed the tire iron for a moment, then walked up to him. "Come on," she said gently, taking him by the shoulders and steering him towards the building on the far end of the scrapyard. Cross let himself be led, unable to come up with a better idea. If he didn't comply, she'd likely call the police on him. Or he could run, but where would he go? Besides, the woman didn't seem inclined to harm him. All he could smell off of her was some mild annoyance and concern.

The only structure in the scrapyard was a small office building connecting to a larger warehouse. The woman opened the unlocked door to the office and ushered him in, Cross' skin prickling at being inside a building that wasn't a loud, busy bar. It was decidedly unfamiliar but not unpleasant. The area was cluttered but clean and it smelled like freshly brewed coffee. He took a seat when the woman pointed him towards a chair and accepted a paper cup of water. 

"Do you want anything else? Tea? Coffee?"  
He shook his head and she sat down in the chair opposite him. She was silent for a moment and Cross could smell the annoyance make way for something else, a little sadness, as she scrutinized him. He knew he probably looked terrible. He hadn't checked his face for bruises, but the knuckles on his right hand were swollen and purple and his arm felt about the same. He was grimy, he knew that. The last time he'd properly washed his face had been at least four days ago. He probably stank. 

"What's your name, kid?" she finally asked.   
He regarded her for a moment. "Cross."  
If she thought the name odd, she didn't show it. She just nodded, probably glad to know he could speak at all. "I'm Debra. Can I get you something to eat?"  
He shook his head again, paused for a moment, then muttered, "'m not hungry."  
She pursed her lips. "Don't lie, boy. You look like you haven't eaten anything in weeks. I'll get you some food." She peered at him for a moment longer, as though considering something. "There's a shower in the back if you want to use it."  
With that, she got up. "Here, I'll show you where it is and fix you a sandwich while you get cleaned up."

-

A hot shower was a luxury Cross couldn't pass up, despite the voice in the back of his mind telling him he needed to be out looking for his brothers. He also had to make sure that Priest and his men didn't find him first, and that would be a lot easier if he were a little cleaner and therefore less likely to draw attention to himself. He shook his head as though to clear it from the nagging guilt. "First shower, then rescue. Can't save 'em if I stink," he muttered to himself as he locked the door to the tiny bathroom. He dumped the towel and t-shirt he'd been handed on the floor, then gingerly laid his tire iron across the sink so that it would be easy to reach. He checked the door once more, making sure it was properly locked, and undressed.

It was the first hot shower he'd had in.. he wasn't sure how long. Too long. The stall was cramped and he was definitely too tall for the shower head and the water alternated between a little too hot and too cold, but he didn't mind. It was perfect. He took his time washing his hair and scrubbing hard at every spot of grime he could find, and carefully examined the various injuries he'd sustained in the fights the night before. There was nothing too bad, just some scrapes and bruises. He definitely had a welt on the back of his head, but that seemed to be the worst of it.  

Feeling cleaner and a little more human than he had in a long time Cross dried himself off and pulled on his tattered jeans. He then turned the shower back on and washed his ratty t-shirt and socks as well as he could. Finally he used the now damp towel to wipe down the tiny mirror hanging over the sink and examined his face. He was more tan than he remembered and a purple bruise bloomed on his jaw. It was odd, seeing himself up close like this, and he made a face at the mirror.  Then he remembered the night before, and his brothers, and the blood. "No no no, not useful," he told himself, frowning at his reflection. "Not. Useful." The panic would get him nowhere. His brothers were alive. The man had taken them but they were alive, they were alright, they had to be. He would find them and they would make the man named Priest and his damn soldiers pay for what they'd done.  

Someone else had entered the office. He could hear voices, one of them Debra's and one of them belonging to a man, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. Moving quickly, he put on on the new t-shirt and pulled his boots onto his bare feet. He threaded his wet shirt through one of his belt loops and stuffed his socks in his pocket, then grabbed the tire iron and listened at the door.   
He heard nothing. After another moment of waiting and listening he slowly unlocked and opened the door, tire iron raised and ready to strike.   
The office was empty. 

Cross stalked across the room, checking for any movement, any human smells. There was a generous pile of sandwiches sitting on the desk next to his untouched cup of water, but no sign of Debra or of the man he'd heard. Then there was movement outside and the door swung open and Debra bustled in, freezing in place when she saw Cross with the tire iron raised high. Having recovered from her surprise, she scoffed. "Could you put that _down_ please?"   
He quickly did as he was told and muttered an apology.   
"Sit down, boy. Have some food, drink your water. They're saying a storm's headed this way, should be here tomorrow. If you're still in the area when it hits, you're free to take shelter in the warehouse, alright? Not in any of the cars. There's some old seats sitting back there that you can sleep on but don't touch anything else, you hear?" She didn't wait for an answer, just fixed him with an intent stare. "I'm trusting you because you don't seem like a bad kid. Don't make me regret it, okay? Now eat."

Cross gingerly picked up a sandwich, sniffed at it, took a bite. It had been a while since he'd tasted anything like this, like normal people did. It was nice. He smiled a little with a mouth full of peanut butter. Normal was OK. 

When Cross had started on his third sandwich, Debra looked up at the clock. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to leave soon. The boys will be here in a bit and then there's work to be done. Take the rest with you, if you're anything like my sons you need it. And remember, you can stay here tomorrow. There's no one here on Saturdays except me and I leave at five. The office will be locked but I'll leave the door at the back open for you."  
As he got up, he could feel the sadness again. Regret.   
"Is there no one I can call for you, Cross? You must have someone who cares for you."  
He hadn't until recently, but he did now. Not just someone, but two people, and the fact that he knew that so definitely after such a long time alone made him feel warm despite the circumstances. Of course, they couldn't help him and he couldn't tell Debra about any of that so he just shook his head. "It's okay. Thanks."

-

The sun shone bright and Cross relished its warmth as he rested against the junkyard fence, far enough from the road to be out of sight. He'd hung out his wet t-shirt and socks and they were nearly dry already as he sat and ate his last sandwich. He stared out over the field as he chewed, trying to think up ways to save his brothers. The more he thought about it, the less he had to go on in terms of finding them. He knew that the man who'd come to collect Gripps and Martin called himself Mr. Priest and that he'd used some sort of gas on them and that they seemed military and that there was something named Blackwing. Maybe he could go back and ask Debra for a phonebook and look up those names? He had serious doubts about how much use that would be. What if this was all some huge government.. thing? Did he really expect to just find an address for wherever they had taken them? 

He swallowed the last bite and took a swig from the water bottle Debra given him. His friends were locked up and injured or worse and here he sat, free, mostly unscathed, freshly showered, well-fed and feeling more lost and alone than he ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my first chapter that isn’t a POV version! It still corresponds to @takadasaiko‘s Howl Until it Hurts, but this time it’s a chapter with just Cross after Martin & Gripps have been taken by Priest. As usual, please let me know what you think!


	4. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cross goes on a search for more information, any information, about Blackwing and Mr. Priest. Meanwhile, a storm is rolling in.

The storm hit the next day, just like Debra had said it would. He'd slept out in the field that night and had woken up to another beautifully sunny day, but by mid-afternoon clouds were rolling in. 

He had walked the two miles back into town that morning, thinking that maybe there was some way for him to figure out where they'd taken his brothers. There had been nothing in the alley where they'd fought. No broken bar stools. No blood. Nothing that even as much as suggested that something had transpired there. It was enough to make Cross doubt himself, to question if he hadn't just imagined the whole thing, hadn't just imagined finding his family. The bruises on his knuckles were a reminder that it had all been real and when the doubt crept in he found himself pressing on them, just to make sure. He didn't know what he'd do once they'd faded.

There were no leads. Nothing to tell him where to go. He'd even tried the local library. The _library._ The last time he'd tried to go into a library they'd turned him away, though that time he had been decidedly less clean and looking for a place to rest instead of information. Now, however, a stern but helpful librarian had shown him how the indexing system worked. He had been sure that with such a wealth of information there had to be something, _anything_. There were references to black boxes, black books, plenty of birds with black wings, but no mention of Blackwing, whatever it was. No Mr. Priest in the phone book either, though there were plenty of priests. It had taken all of his willpower not to take out his frustration on a book case on his way out.

Now he was back on the road to the junkyard, a long stretch of nothing with trees on one side and the very occasional building on the other. Cross vaguely remembered running there two nights before, though then he'd been sticking to the trees and ducking in and out of bushes, wary of any car that came up behind him. He wasn't so nervous anymore. Nothing had happened, not on his way in this morning, not in town. There were no military men anywhere, not even mention of them. It was like the events of that night hadn't happened, like everything was and always had been completely normal.

He pressed into his knuckles.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and he walked a little faster. There was still at least a mile to go and he rather not get completely drenched if he could help it. In the distance ahead of him he could hear the rumble of an engine and suddenly he felt a pull, something telling him to move. _Now_. He did, quickly dashing into the treeline. Moments after he ducked behind a tree a black van rumbled past, leaving just a hint of a familiar smell in the air.

_Priest_.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to chase after the van or run the other way as hard as he could. More than anything he wanted his brothers. He wanted them to tell him what was going on, where Priest had taken them and why. He wanted Martin's calm reassurance, wanted Gripps' easy grin. He knew couldn't give chase, not yet. He couldn't face Priest alone. He sunk down to a crouch behind the tree and waited, listening, heart beating fast in his chest. He didn't hear the sound of the engine again, or smell any of the sickeningly sweet _wrongness_ , and after fifteen minutes he was convinced that the van wasn't coming back. Thunder rumbled and he continued on towards the junkyard, listening hard for the sound of the engine all the while.

The sky was darkening rapidly as he passed the fence and the car he'd slept in two nights before. By the time he found the back entrance to the warehouse - open, as promised - the first raindrops had started to fall. Cross blinked hard against the darkness inside and when his eyes had adjusted he moved quietly, carefully, into the large open space. At the far end of the warehouse the door to the office was closed, the room behind it dark. It must be after five already. There was a note on the door. As he came closer, he saw that it had his name on it.

_Cross_ , it read. _Hope you make it in before the rain. There's sandwiches in a bag by the car seats._   _Love, Debra._

He smiled a little, but his heart sank when he reached the second part of the note.

_PS. A young man came asking about you. He said he's leaving town but I have his number. I'll be in Monday if you need to call him._

That had to be Priest. No one else would be asking for him. _  
_

Unless they got out, unless they escaped. 

No. It couldn't be. They would have stayed. It had to be Priest; the van had been driving away from the junkyard, after all. And he was leaving town. That was good, right? Cross took in a shaky breath, gaze flitting around the dark warehouse. He smelled rubber and metal and rust and paint, but no Priest. He was alone. He was fine. Priest was gone. He'd left town! That was good. It was all good.

The car seats were arranged in a half circle by the back door, an ash tray and a surprisingly neat row of empty bottles indicating that this was a place to relax at the end of the day. He spotted the brown bag that presumably contained sandwiches on a worn backseat cushion, but didn't touch it. He wasn't hungry. Not for normal food, anyway. The rain outside the open door brought in the smell of fresh, clean air and he breathed in deep, trying to shake the jittery beginnings of panic. Just knowing that Priest had been in the vicinity that very day made him nervous, anxious, made him feel like he needed to _move_. But Priest had left. He was gone. Maybe he had given Debra an address? A name he could use to track his brothers down? Yes, maybe Cross would stay until Monday. Talk to her, see if she knew anything more.

He'd find them, he thought resolutely as he stretched out on one of the cushions. Something dug into his back and he remembered the tire iron, threaded through the belt loops at the back of his jeans and hidden under his shirt. He removed it and laid it down beside him. His long legs didn't fit at all but it was infinitely better than sleeping on a cold hard floor. 

He'd find them and then it would all make sense again.

 

-

 

He must have drifted off. It was completely dark when Cross opened his eyes again. The rain had stopped, though thunder still rumbled faintly in the distance and he could hear the steady _drip drip drip_ of water from the edge of the warehouse roof. He stretched out with a groan and propped himself up on his elbows, taking in the dark space around him. Raindrops on the window caused shadows to dance between the empty shells of cars and the storage racks that lined the wall and he watched them for a long moment. 

A gust of wind rattled the door that he had left open to let the cool night air in and Cross tensed. Why was he so on edge? All he could smell was the warehouse and the rain that was starting again. There was a word for that smell, he thought vaguely, but he couldn't remember what it was. He took a few deep breaths and waited for his heartbeat to slow again. Then he laid back down, the steady sound of rain falling lulling him back to sleep.

 

-

 

The next time he woke up, the rain was still coming down hard. It was almost all he could hear, that heavy drumming sound. The trickle of water from the rooftop. A hissing sound he couldn't quite place. What was that?

Then the smell hit him and his eyes snapped open.

"Hello, Cross."

He threw himself off the mattress at the same time the gas entered his lungs, glass shards tearing through him as he coughed. His limbs felt heavy, far too heavy and he struggled to move, to fight, but Priest had a fistful of his hair and was pulling him up, his face just inches away from his own now.

"You'll learn soon enough," Priest drawled, smiling pleasantly, "you can't run from me."

Cross tried to speak but he couldn't pull enough air into his lungs and he coughed instead, panic setting in.

"Strugglin’, are you? Yes, it really is quite potent. Thoroughly tested on your little friends." Priest grinned.

There it was again, that sickeningly sweet scent.

"Where are they?" He choked out. "Where'd you take them?"  
Breathing was easier now, glass shards making way for a hot rage. "If you touched them if you hurt them you'll  _pay_ you'll -"

Priest shoved him down hard and his face collided with the floor.

"Them? Poor boy. Don't you know? Martin was shot."

Cross thought he might throw up. No. _No_. Martin couldn't be. No.

He struggled to his feet, his limbs finally cooperating. Priest was watching him closely as though curious to see what he would do.

"He’s not.. You're lying," he whispered, tasting blood.

"Wouldn't you rather just come along, boy? It's such a  _shame_ for your dear friend Gripps to be alone when you two could be mournin' together."

His eyes stung. If Gripps was alone somewhere.. They weren't meant to be alone. Weren't meant to be apart. Martin wasn't meant to be _dead_. A fresh wave of emotion hit him, but it was not his own. Priest was enjoying this, was enjoying his pain. The bastard was _happy_.

A snarl escaped him and Cross lunged forward. There was no thought, no plan, just him and the man who had killed Martin. The man who had _enjoyed_ killing Martin. He caught Priest by surprise, could taste it as he _pulled,_ drawing that twisted energy into him. Priest stumbled, tried to raise the hose on his pack, tried to aim the gas at him but he couldn't. His arms failed him and Cross grinned widely, wickedly, ravenous now, drinking in the surprise and confusion and pain. 

Finally the flow stopped and Priest crashed to his knees, as though the transfer of energy had been the only thing keeping him standing. He looked pale and clammy and completely disoriented and Cross stared down at him. His skin tingled pleasantly. He felt strong. Awake. _Alive_.

_Martin._

He fought the bile rising up, took a deep breath, swallowed hard. There was no time. He didn't think Priest would have come alone. He snatched up the tire iron from the ground and stormed out, into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't be the last time Cross runs into Priest. Let me know what you think! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://setmeatopthepyre.tumblr.com).


	5. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been four days since Priest had attacked him in the warehouse. Four days since he'd found out that Martin was dead.
> 
> Cross had spent those four days in a haze. He barely recalled stepping out into the rain, tire iron in hand, but he remembered feeling electric, like his skin was static and his bones were light, lighter than they should be. He'd felt so strong. He'd known where the soldiers were before he'd seen them, had known they were going to strike before they did. He'd smelled it, had sensed the shift before they'd even moved. 
> 
> They hadn't stood a chance.

Four days.

It had been four days since Priest had attacked him in the warehouse. Four days since he'd found out that Martin was dead.

 

Cross had spent those four days in a haze. He barely recalled stepping out into the rain, tire iron in hand, but he remembered feeling electric, like his skin was static and his bones were light, lighter than they should be. He'd felt so strong. He'd known where the soldiers were before he'd seen them, had known they were going to strike before they did. He'd smelled it, had sensed the shift before they'd even moved. 

They hadn't stood a chance.

 

 

For the past four days, Cross had done nothing but survive. He'd let the electricity in his bones guide him, let the buzz of the world fill his mind and keep him from having to think, let his legs carry him as far away from Priest as they could. Surviving was easy. Moving was easy. Not thinking was becoming more and more difficult.

 

 

He wondered vaguely if he'd killed them, Priest and his men, but now that the electric haze had faded a bit the pit in his stomach was all-consuming. He found he didn't care, didn't care if they'd died. Priest and all those who worked for him had it coming.

 

 

Martin was dead.

The thought wouldn't let him go. Whenever he was distracted by anything else his mind found a way to circle back to it.

Martin was dead. 

And every time the thought came back to him, that pit in his stomach grew.

 

 

The more the haze faded, the more an inky black panic gnawed at the edges of his mind. It was wrong. It was all wrong. Him, alone. Gripps, alone. Martin, alone and buried who knows where. If they'd even buried him at all.

It wasn't just grief. At least, he didn't think it was. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was messed up, that it wasn't supposed to be like this. Like something somewhere had gone off track and he'd ended up in the wrong version of reality.

 

_Shit_ , he thought. _I AM crazy_. 

 

 

The woods were quiet. It was driving Cross insane. He liked noise. He liked movement. The crashing sounds of startled deer broke through the monotony once or twice, but it wasn't enough. Running from Priest meant hiding and hiding, even in the woods, felt like being caged.  People like him weren't meant to be caged. 

There weren't a lot of people like him, he reminded himself. 

Just one. Just Gripps, now that Martin was..

A gunshot rang out and froze Cross in place.  For a long moment he was scared to even breathe. He tried to listen, to sense where it had come from, but whoever had fired the shot was too far away. 

Another shot, but this time he was sure it wasn't anywhere near him. He heard their voices now: three of them, loud but without a sense of urgency. A dog barking. Then he spotted their orange between the trees and he finally let go of the breath he had been holding. They were hunters, not soldiers. Not Priest. 

After waiting a few minutes, their sounds moving steadily farther away,  Cross took a chance and sank down to a crouch. He waited.

Nothing. 

Good. That was good.

He settled into a seated position, tire iron across his lap, deciding it was best to wait until there wasn't a chance of getting mistaken for a deer for him to continue on. He wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere anyway. Sure, he had to find Gripps but he had nothing to go on, no trail to follow. He was just headed towards more of the same empty survival except this time he was disappointing his only friend left alive. He should have stayed back at the junkyard. Should have taken a chance to find out more, should have tried to get information out of the soldiers. Of course, he had no idea how he'd have done such a thing. Torture? No. That wasn't him. 

He let out a breathy chuckle at the realization and mumbled, "Shit, I'm a crazy maybe-murderer in the woods but no, no, _torture_ is too much." 

Cross leaned back on his arms, feeling moss dent under his palms. He had to wait. It was the smart thing to do. He just really, really hated waiting, especially when there was that panic creeping in, especially with the knowledge that somewhere, Gripps was alone. Moving around at least kept him occupied to some degree.

Fighting the urge to jump to his feet and just run for the sake of movement Cross took in a deep breath and tried to focus on his surroundings, tried to fend off the panic that way. He reached out with his senses and felt sticks and pebbles poke into his long legs, felt the fabric of his new t-shirt - far too wide for his lanky frame and definitely not clean anymore - on his skin. He heard leaves rustling above him, heard the twitter of birds returning now that the hunters were gone. Another deep breath and he smelled the dry, earthy smell of a forest warming up, and..

He frowned.

There was something else there, too. It wasn't Priest, wasn't human, wasn't familiar at all. But it was _odd_. Dusty. Cloying. 

He breathed in deep again. The odd dusty scent was the only thing he could smell now and he couldn't pinpoint where it came from. It was _everywhere_  and it was putting him on edge. After a moment's hesitation he rose to his feet and looked around him. There, ahead of him, a puff of red smoke. And there, to his left, another, but blue. He spun around. Smoke was rising between the trees in a near perfect circle around him. His skin prickled and he tried to reach out, tried to smell if there was anyone out there, but there was nothing. Only the cloying scent that felt like it was working its way into his brain, making his thoughts sluggish.

Cross shook his head as though to clear it only to feel a sharp sting in his leg moments later. He muttered a curse under his breath. Really? This smoke was everywhere and there were still insects around _stinging people_? He reached down to swat it away but froze when he saw that it wasn't an insect at all. It was a dart. A freaking _dart_. Like he was some sort of freaking animal. Anger rose up in him with a growl and he yanked the offending object out of his leg, then tossed it away from him towards the nearest plume of smoke. 

He had to think, though the rush of adrenaline was making it hard. He had to do something. That dart probably had something in it that would start working soon and there must have been someone nearby to shoot it at him. He gripped the tire iron tightly.

"Show yourselves, you bastards!" he snarled at the trees.

There was no reply. Of course there wasn't. Cowards. 

With a howl he rushed into the smoke. 

 

Beyond the curtain of smoke there was no one, just more empty forest. _Shit_. His steps faltered and slowed. How was he supposed to fight what he couldn't see? His limbs were heavy now and he struggled to keep his eyes open. Shit. _Shit_. What else was he supposed to do? What _could_  he do? He snarled against the feeling of helplessness. Panic welled up inside of him but it couldn't compete with the heavy blanket of fatigue. _Shit shit shit shit shit_.

Cross stumbled to the ground.

_Breathe_. _Focus_.

But he couldn't, whatever had been in the dart was working through his system and pulling him under. 

He blinked slowly as dark figures came into view around him. He heard clicking. Voices. 

Then he toppled over and the world around him shrank away. 

 

 

When he regained consciousness Cross was laying on his back. An engine rumbled beneath him and there was something covering his nose and mouth, plastic edges digging into his skin. He forced his eyes open with a muffled groan. Above him were only dark panels - a ceiling? - and he tried to move his head to look around but found that he couldn't. He frowned, tried to move his arms to at least get the plastic thing off his face, but he couldn't even feel his hands. 

_Shit._

A machine began beeping loudly to his right and the world tilted out of focus once more.

 

 

The next time he came to he was still laying on his back but there was no rumbling and no movement and no hard plastic digging into his face. Instead, he was strapped to a bed in a brightly lit room. Cross blinked hard against the light and lifted his head as far as he could  which, with a strap across his throat, wasn't far at all. The room was filled with what looked like medical equipment; various devices buzzed and blinked and beeped. There was a single window on the wall to his left but it was completely dark. Was it night already?

He tried to move his legs. That worked. His arms, too. Good. That was a step up from before, though being strapped down was not a great development. 

"Hello?" he croaked, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the machines. 

There was no answer. Of course there wasn't. If this was Priest's doing - and it had to be, right? - he probably enjoyed making him wait.

He pulled at his restraints, testing them, trying to wiggle loose somehow, but it was no use. With another groan he laid back down and stared at the ceiling, waiting. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: the next chapter is going to get pretty dark, since Priest is definitely out for some revenge.


	6. Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cross finds himself in Blackwing as a prisoner to Mr. Priest.

He must have laid there for hours, waiting and growing progressively more annoyed with his captors. He did _not_  sit still well, especially when forced to. The only thing keeping him even remotely sane was the thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , wherever he was was the same place Gripps was being held. However, the edges of his mind where his brothers had appeared like bright lights on the night they had met remained empty.

By the time the door finally opened Cross knew every little blinking light, every little buzz and beep the machines around him made. He still had no idea what they did, except for the one that spiked in time with his heartbeat. He had to tilt his head at an awkward angle in order to see Priest walk in but still managed a snarl. The sickly sweet scent pricked his nose, though there was something _off_  about it. 

"Hello again, Cross." his visitor drawled lazily, shutting the door behind him. 

"Where's Gripps, you asshole?" He growled in response, pulling at the restraints. "What'd you do to him, huh? You do this shit to him too?"

Priest just smiled coolly and circled around the bed. He looked bad, like he'd been sick for a while, and one of his eyes twitched. Cross felt a little pleased with the idea that he had been the cause. The bastard deserved it. 

Having arrived at the other side of the bed Priest checked the straps keeping Cross in place. He wore gloves and he seemed to be making sure not to come too close to Cross' hands or face, making it impossible for him to reach out and feed like he had before. 

"Thought so." Priest said after tightening the strap across his chest. 

"What?" Cross demanded angrily, not at all comfortable with knowing less than the older man. 

"You _don't know how."  
_

"How _what?_ Make sense!"

"To.. feed, like Gripps and poor Martin. Or you simply can't. Perhaps they were wrong and you're not like them after all."

The words still came in that slow, easy drawl but there was a venom to them. They were meant to hurt. Cross knew that, but it still worked. 

He gritted his teeth. "You shut up with that shit!" 

The older man just smiled at him, then turned and gestured at the window. A moment later four people dressed in an odd combination of riot gear and lab jackets spilled into the room, causing the space to feel immediately crowded. 

The second he saw one of them holding a needle Cross began to thrash against the restraints, cursing at each of them and none of them in particular. Priest simply watched as the others attempted to wrangle him into submission. Only when Cross managed to spit into one of the scientists' faces did Priest motion for them all to step back, moving forward himself to press a small device into Cross' side. A split second later he was on fire, his muscles contracting painfully under the electric current and pressing him into the restraints.

When Priest finally pulled away Cross coughed and gasped for air, breathing in the smell of twisted joy as he did. As he regained his breath two men stepped forward, one holding his arm still as the other pressed the needle into it. He let out a string of curses but was unable to fight back as the scientist taped the needle into place and continued to hook him up to an IV. 

"If you're not regrettin' your situation already," Priest said pleasantly, "you will soon, no doubt about it."

They fitted a cap over his head next and buckled it under his chin, ignoring his constant stream of protests and curses. Priest stood and watched with a vaguely amused expression and Cross kept his eyes locked on him. The scientists may be the ones poking and prodding him but Priest was calling the shots. Priest was the dangerous one. 

But Priest left the room. 

Cross wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand it meant the nauseating sense of wrongness was dissipating. On the other hand he liked knowing exactly what Priest was up to and what if this meant he was off to do who knows what to Gripps? His absolute lack of control over the situation stirred a sense of helplessness in him he'd decided a long time ago he'd never feel again. Once more he pulled and thrashed against the restraints, though he knew it was useless.

The people left in the room worked wordlessly. Two stood by the machines, making notes while they did. The other two stood by his bed and adjusted something on the IV behind him. He wasn't sure what they did, he couldn't see, but the second they were done they stepped back and waited. There was a long moment of silence, then one of the scientists at the machines spoke.

"More."

There was movement behind him, then all went quiet again. 

The heart monitor began to beep a little faster and slowly Cross began to feel uncomfortably warm.

"More."

Within minutes he was sweating and his vision was going blurry, the beeping of the monitor throbbing painfully in his ears. Another command, another minute and he was shivering uncontrollably while the scientists just stood and watched and scribbled. The edges of his vision pulsed, shivers turned into full-body convulsions, his skin burned where it touched the bed and the restraints and even his clothes, and the beeping turned to ringing in his ears until he could hear nothing else.

"More. "

There was only the wall of sound and the pain and his protesting muscles and the smell of discomfort and was someone screaming?

 

 

Cross didn't know how long he had been out. His vision swam as he tried to focus and the room, far too bright, slowly lost its blurriness. He was alone. He breathed a sigh of relief. They were done, then, with whatever they were trying to do to him. He hadn't spent much time thinking about _what_ exactly he'd ended up in, knowing only that this was a place where they locked up people like him, people like Gripps and Martin.  _Martin_. He swallowed hard, wincing at the rawness of his throat though it was no match for that painful ball of grief in his stomach. No. He'd mourn later, when he was out of here, when he'd found Gripps, when they were free. 

He just needed to figure out _how_. 

It didn't take long for the door to open again. They must have been watching him through the dark window, he thought. Or they had been coming in and out while he was unconscious. Cross wasn't sure which thought made him more uneasy. Of course, nothing about his situation was right. Nothing about him being alone and strapped to a hospital bed and pumped full of who knows what until he passed out was _right_. He snarled as much at the scientists entering the room, but they barely glanced at him. They took up the same positions as they had before - was it minutes ago or hours? - and once again fiddled with the IV and once again stood in silence while Cross waited for whatever pain they were going to inflict this time. 

There was no need to up the dose. Thankfully, he was out mere moments after the burning started. 

 

 

It wasn't the same each time. Sometimes whatever they used simply knocked him out. Sometimes it did nothing at all or just made him sick. Sometimes it made him feel like he was choking and left him desperately gasping for air while the scientists just watched. Sometimes it made him hurt all over and in one, terrifying instance he'd felt the pain in his chest and alarms had started going off and people had come running in. He didn't remember much after that. He didn't remember much at all, really. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd been captured. It had to be days, at least. Maybe even weeks. Everything since the woods felt like a fever dream of bright lights and pain and the sickening smell of Priest. Priest, who came and went but never seemed to be in the room when Cross was awake. 

 

 

He was so tired. 

They'd gotten rid of the IV a little while ago. Apparently they'd poisoned him enough. For a moment he thought he'd found some reprieve, that they were done. That they would take him to Gripps, finally. 

_Gripps is still alone.  
_

Cross never stopped testing the edges of his mind to see if there was something there. If his brother was nearby. 

_He's still all alone somewhere.  
_

He squeezed his eyes shut tight against the brightness of the room and tried to reach, tried to _feel_. But he couldn't. There was nothing there.

_Is he strapped to a bed too?  
_

It was hard to think of Gripps because it made him think of Martin. 

_Did he survive long enough to be taken back to Blackwing?_

A machine somewhere beeped faster. 

_Did he survive long enough to be strapped to a bed like this?_

The door opened. He didn't open his eyes; he could smell who it was. No reprieve after all. "Just let me _sleep,_  you asshole."

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. You've been asleep for two days, you know."

Cross frowned, opened one eye to glare blearily at Priest. "What? No I haven't."

The older man shook his head slowly with a knowing smile. "Well, I'm afraid you have. That last test really took it out of you. Looks like the good little scientists found somethin' new to knock you out with." He paused, his smile widening. "A'course they'll have to tweak it so it doesn't _kill_ you next time."

He could hear his heart skip a beat when the beeps paused for a second. Priest heard it too and quirked an eyebrow at the heart monitor. 

"Now now, no need to get all worked up. Gripps won't be losing another brother anytime soon."

_Another brother_. 

Cross closed his eyes tightly again, not caring anymore about Priest being in the room. The lights were too bright. He was just so tired. He was never getting out of here, was he? Where had everything gone wrong? In the span of a few days his entire life had shifted, had grown brighter, had fallen to pieces. Now nothing made sense anymore. It felt like the universe was broken, like pieces were out of place.

_I'm insane. I knew I was. I knew they'd lock me up one day, didn't I? No, no, not even a padded freaking cell for me.  
_

The door opened again and for a moment he thought it was just Priest leaving, but then an unfamiliar smell reached him. Someone new.

"Osmund. _What the hell did I hear?_  You had to _revive_   Incubus Three?"

"Ah. _Scotty_. How nice of you to join us." Priest continued his lazy drawl but Cross could smell the man's change in demeanor. Reservation. Annoyance. He opened his eyes and strained to look towards the door.

The man standing in the doorway was a little older than Priest and wearing a military uniform. He seemed unaware that Cross was listening, or even awake, at all.

"There were some.. complications." Priest said. 

" _Complications!_ " the man bristled. " The subjects are to stay _alive_ , Osmund. Death is _not_ a complication!"

Cross growled. "You didn't mind killing Martin."

At that, the man looked over to the bed, finally noticing Cross. "Ah, you're awake." He frowned, looking over Cross for a moment, before nodding curtly. "Yes, right. You nearly killed Martin as well, Osmund. You can't keep arguing for the efficiency of your.. _methods_   if subjects are constantly in danger."

"Well, that's where you're wrong, Scotty. The subjects being in danger is why my _methods,_ as you so kindly call them, work. The people higher up sure seem to understand that."

Cross was barely listening.

_Nearly_  killed.

_Nearly_. 

The man, Scotty, whatever his name was, was mid retaliation when Cross interrupted him, eyes wide, his pain and weariness forgotten. 

"Martin's alive?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it'd be a little darker! It's all brighter from here on out, though.
> 
> I'd love to know what you all think.


End file.
